Why, Zack?
by bea.tricks
Summary: Emotion is a difficult thing to quantify. Zack, now in a psychiatric facility, reflects back on the events of his life that brought him to this point. R&R please. Chapter 7 - Any Other Day.
1. Point of Origin

_a lot of us have had a difficult time with the revelation that zack was gormogon's apprentice. people have dealt with that in many different ways. we have seen so little of zack in this last season that it's an area full of opportunity. and i have a thought about how it could have happened._

_please note that this will be a sad story. but i think sometimes we need sad stories to understand how even fictional characters we love turn out the way they do. and when we understand that, we have an idea of how they can begin to recover. and don't we all want zack back?_

_bones is not mine. i have no claims to the stories or any of the characters. i'm just a big nerdy fan._

* * *

A little over two years ago, a woman from the state department was doing a security review on all of the employees in the Jeffersonian's medico-legal lab. None of us had wanted to put up with the interruption, but we endured. Some more patiently than others. And when the woman insisted that she needed my full attention to conduct her review, I corrected her but gave it anyway.

_"Hypothetically, you have a piece of information."_

_"Secret and meaningful information?" I leaned on table._

_"Yes. And the security of the country is at stake. Could I bribe you to give it to me?"_

_"No."_

_"Threaten you?"_

_"No."_

_"What if I made a reasonable, rational argument... very persuasive?"_

_"Merely persuasive?" I leaned further toward her playfully, turned my head slightly sideways._

_"Irrefutable. I make an irrefutable argument as to why you should give me this piece of information. Would you do so?"_

_"Not without checking with Dr. Brennan or Angela first. See what they said. Maybe Agent Booth, if he talked to me... he probably wouldn't. I'd check with Dr. Hodgins but he'd say it was all part of some conspiracy, so I mostly only take his advice on women."_

My highly-adept mind finally found the answer it was looking for and I ran from the room, focused on the case at hand. I didn't think about that conversation again until much later.

I knew who I could trust then. Everything that they had _done_ should have proven their capability and willingness to help me before it arrived at the critical point when I met him. That was the point where things began to change drastically in the real world, outside of the chaos of my own mind.

I am a rational empiricist. I accept now that there was more happening in my mind than logic. I imagine that my friends might wonder what could have possibly brought me here. How could the rational Dr. Addy have wound up a criminal locked away in a mental institution. That question does not have a short answer. But it has a beginning. A point of origin.

My time in Iraq had more of an influence on me than anyone knew.

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_shall i continue this? please review and let me know if you are interested in hearing zack's story as i imagine it._


	2. Invitation

We spend several hours each day in the activity room. The space is large and spartan with high, reinforced windows. 'Activity room' would appear to be a misnomer, as even when recreational pursuits are planned, there is very little activity. Now we are sitting quietly and working with clay. Many of the men are simply prodding it with their fingers.

I feel this is an appropriate punishment for me. I believe that my friends felt that being at a psychiatric facility would be an improvement from prison, and in some ways I believe that they are right. There is less of a threat of bodily harm from fellow inmates here. But there is also very little opportunity to have any mental connection. The ability to think and interact rationally is a rare trait in the occupants of a place like this.

I am used to being separated from my peers by my mental acuity. But the chasm here is beyond anything I've ever experienced.

I have taken to speaking to my fellow inmates even when they don't respond. I often imagine what they might say and reply as though they had. It seems a rational way to prevent atrophy of my communicative skills.

Interestingly enough, it also makes me appear to belong here.

There is a man named Will who has been in this facility for fifteen years. I speak to him more often than the others. He appears to have moments of lucidity and occasionally replies, and he almost never yells the way the others do. Will tends to be a good sounding board for my thoughts.

He also has short, curly hair.

I understood the cultural relevance, the great honor of being asked to be Hodgins' best man. I've always felt a bit of an outsider in society. I'd never been anyone's best anything before. Anthropologically speaking, a place in Hodgins' wedding at all would be by far the biggest social honor I'd ever received.

I roll my clay into as perfect of a sphere as I can manage with the prosthetic digits and then press my right hand into it, letting it fan out and cradle the scarred tissue of my palm.

I'd already been thinking about honor, but of a different sort. I had gotten my letter from the president asking that I provide my services in Iraq. Up to that point I'd felt that my place was not as a member of society, but as an observer, a researcher. I felt little duty.

But when Hodgins had offered me an important place in society as a supporter of his marriage, I wanted it badly enough to give up my observer's role. I would be a member of this society! I would participate! I would take part in all of the advantages and obligations. Including serving my country. I had just been sent an additional invitation to participate in society.

I look at the awkward handprint I've made and squish it up, rolling it into another ball and repeating the exercise with the other hand.

And then, of course, the irony is that I didn't want to put myself simultaneously in such a place of honor and a place of danger. Taking a place of importance in the wedding and then shipping off immediately afterward to a war zone seemed like too much of a disconnect. I decided being a groomsman was an acceptable compromise.

"Dude, he just asked you to be in his wedding," Will says, not looking up from his clay.

The ideal in our society is for a wedding to occur once per pair, per lifetime. By definition, 'til death do we part.' And this wasn't Hodgins and some woman I'd met only a few times. This was Angela. This was an important event.

An orderly who is strolling through the room and supervising the 'activity' suggests I try making something. I eventually roll a bit of the clay out separately, but I can't seem to think of anything concrete to do with it. All I can do is manipulate it and pretend that the digits can feel its soft yield.

It somehow seems to me that the clay has not yet reached equilibrium. So I keep working it.

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_thank you for the kind reviews. this is a bit theraputic for me as well. this will be a slow reveal of zack's journey. please continue to let me know what you think, and how the story strikes you._


	3. Settling

The dining room looks nearly identical to the activity room, similarly devoid of decoration or identifying characteristics. The only difference is the long counter that separates this space from the kitchen. We stand in line now, waiting for medication and food.

I want to inform the orderly that my intelligence is well above the level necessary for using multimillion-dollar equipment, electron microscopes. That I have designed re-programmable multi-functional manipulators. That I am more than capable of using a fork.

But then I remind myself of what I have done to earn this experience, and I accept the flimsy spoon. I know that it is designed to be harmless for patients in institutions like this. I am tempted to suggest that it is also designed to be nearly impossible to use, but that is illogical. It is an emotional reaction to how much more difficult it will be for me than the others here.

There is a seat available next to Will. I take it.

And as always, it seems that all I can do here is think.

They must have been in dire need of my services, because rather than going through regular 9-week Basic Training plus a few months of Advanced Individual Training, I found myself on a transport destined for the Middle East after only three weeks of accelerated instruction.

I settled in as best I could. It was not easy, as the other soldiers tended to have more advanced social skills, and I was quickly labeled "weird." But aside from the location and the people, the work was the same. I identified badly damaged or decomposed human remains. As much as I missed my colleagues at the Jeffersonian, it was an exhilarating challenge to be working independently. I was regularly called upon to challenge my thinking, even more important because there was only my one brain to process the evidence.

"You work with dead people?" Will asks.

With human skeletons, yes. They don't usually still look much like people. It is easier to dissociate when there isn't much blood.

Death is frequently hidden away in our society, and my job, while being highly important, is not widely considered desirable. So I am used to being ignored. I am comfortable in solitude. And I was content with my solitude, spending my time reading, working on academic papers, writing to my family, my friends from the Jeffersonian. The staff psychologist was not very pleased with the fact that I tended to not associate much with the other, the _live _ personnel on the base.

I struggle to make the mechanical prostheses grip the spoon. It slips repeatedly to the tray, the hard plastic unwilling to adapt itself to the flimsy spoon. I occasionally manage to get a bite of food to my mouth in the utensil by using both hands. I get enough sustenance, but I have lost weight in my time here.

I didn't much care for the food on the base. Military rations aren't known for being particularly appetizing, but they were adequate. We would occasionally have meals outside on days when it wasn't too warm. About a week after I'd arrived, we had one of our rare barbecues. I sat alone on a patch of grass beneath a tree, observing the social interaction. A game of touch football was underway and half the soldiers had removed their shirts to designate their association with one team. The game was interesting, but puzzling, they didn't appear to be following many formalized rules.

I'd dropped my eyes to reach for my cup of water when I heard someone yell, "Heads up!"

My plate exploded in front of me. When I looked down, potato salad covered my shirt and I could smell the barbecue sauce that was splattered all over my face. The football bounced twice and rolled to a stop nearby.

The mocking snickers around me were only half hidden as I surveyed the remains of my lunch in shock. But they were wiped clear from my mind when a sparkling female laugh reached my ears.

_"Hey, are you alright?"_

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_your reviews are a wonderful motivator for me. please review and let me know you're still with me.  
_


	4. Eddy

_i forgot to mention last chapter... tom's gg was kind enough to remind me that the explosion in the finale pretty much left zack's hands frizzlefried, __(thanks again!)__ so i've gone back into the second chapter and made some modifications you might want to check out if you haven't already.  
_

_also, this chapter is really a continuation of the last one, so you might want to reread the last few paragraphs if you haven't read it since i originally posted it._

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Today it's pasta salad that I find on my chest, but I'm prepared and a napkin tucked in my shirt catches most of it. And today the person who helps me clean up is a man. And is wearing a shirt.

_I held up a hand covered in chocolate mousse, and looked up at the woman who had spoken to me. Her skin was the same shade as the substance that covered my thumb. I fought an impulse to pop it into my mouth. _

_She must have been a member of the shirtless team as she wore only a black sports bra and camouflaged shorts._

_"And here I thought my spiral was improving."_

_I finally managed to speak, "I don't know what that means."_

_"It means I'm sorry for ruining your lunch," her rich voice spoke frankly._

_She stooped to take a napkin and help clean my front. While I was focused on my clothing, she moved to wipe my cheek gently. I hadn't even touched her skin yet, but I had a suspicion that it was soft._

_"You're the forensic anthropologist, right?"_

_I looked at her in surprise, "Yes, but most people just refer to me as the freak."_

_She laughed again and moved her napkin to my neck, "It's amazing, with how tough these guys claim to be, how many of them are just big babies."_

_"I don't understand."_

_"They deal with death all the time, but they're afraid of it. So they make fun of it."_

_"And me."_

_"It would appear so."_

_I finally looked into her warm, dark brown eyes. "And you aren't afraid?"_

_"I wouldn't say that, but I don't let it control me." She grinned and blushed a little bit, "And I'm... well I'm studying to be a scientist too."_

_"Really?"_

_"Yes. I have my Masters in Genetics from Stanford. When I get back, I'm hoping to complete my doctorate."_

_I was impressed. "You're intelligent, but they don't make fun of you."_

_"No," she laughed. "But I suppose these help," she said as she smacked her hands to her chest to cup her breasts._

_I cocked my head and looked at them objectively. And subjectively. "They are very nice," I admitted._

_Her face split into a huge grin and she laughed openly._

_From well behind her a voice rang out, "Eddy!"_

_For a moment I thought he had yelled for me, but then the woman turned, picked up the football and chucked it at them._

_"Eddy?"_

_"Lily Edwards. Eddy." She stuck out her hand._

_I took it. "Zack Addy."_

_She smiled, "Eddy and Addy."_

_Lily Edwards excused herself back to the other players with a genuine 'I'll see you later'. I hadn't heard many of those in Iraq aimed in my direction. I could have gone to acquire more rations, but at that point I found myself highly interested in the game. I watched until I had to return to the lab._

I stop trying to eat the food in a messy pile before me and simply let my mind replay the scene over and over again. When I stop thinking about it today, I will refrain from doing so again. Mulling over past events that are unchangeable and from which there is no further information to acquire is illogical and unhelpful. But it is a fond memory, so I think about it until an orderly comes to clear the lunch trays and another helps clean the cold prostheses on each of my hands.

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_i love all of your feedback. please let me know what you think._


	5. Fraternization

_an update! astounding, i know. i haven't given up on this story, i've just been busy with work, writers block, and recent real-life setbacks. fortunately for my writing, (and unfortunately for my bank account) i am now unemployed, so let's see what i can do toward getting you more chapters. :)_

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It is the dead of night. I lie in my solitary room, staring at the ceiling, hands resting on my chest. The man in the next cell cries out for his dead mother for the eleventh time tonight. I have an overwhelming urge to examine something.

I have been trying to sleep, but it will not come. Relaxation is elusive here. A year ago, I would have given up, called a cab, and busied myself with Limbo bones until morning. Now, I do not deserve that pleasure. I begin counting dots on the ceiling.

--

_Corporal Lily Edwards barked a "Hurry up!" to the rest of the detail assigned to accompany me. Remains had been discovered. I was to retrieve them._

_"Where the hell is Caputo?" she asked one of the soldiers who ran to join them._

_"Got called in to see the Colonel. I think someone ratted on him and Liutenant Abrams."_

_Eddy let out a heavy, exasperated sigh. "They were dating back in the states!"_

_"Yeah, apparently the Army doesn't give a shit," replied the soldier. "James should be along soon to fill in."_

_I leaned closer to Eddy and shifted the bag on my shoulder. "What's going on?" _

_"A gal I know from back home, Janet Abrams, is a commissioned officer. Frank Caputo was her high school sweetheart and they're planning on getting married in a few years. In any case, he enlisted and is now a private here in the same unit. They've been keeping up their relationship in secret." She glared over her shoulder at the building, "Well, til now."_

_"Ah," I said, "and there are regulations against fraternization."_

_"They aren't even within the same chain of command. She runs the... you know what, it doesn't matter. Now they're outed and they're going to have consequences."_

_"I suppose that's what happens when you break the rules."_

_"Yeah, big man?" she snapped. She stooped to grip the handle of one of my gear cases with pale knuckles. "What do the rules have to say about love, huh?"_

_"I'm not aware of anything in the manual about affection or the release of endorphins," I answered honestly._

_Her frustration was frozen on her fair features as she spun to look at me. She searched my face and finally melted into a vulnerable chuckle. "You're funny, Addy."_

_I smiled. I was funny? If it meant I got to see her laugh, to see her smile, I would take up the study of comedy. I walked next to her as we loaded the gear into the back of the truck. "I'm sorry about your friend."_

_"Thanks."_

--

There are 10,863 perforations in the acoustical ceiling tiles that hang directly above my bed. I might have made a mistake in my counting; the medications I'm taking effect my concentration and three times I've questioned my current total. I struggle to calculate the noise reduction coefficient and encounter the same problem.

The restlessness is disturbing. A couple weeks ago a rat stumbled into my room and died. I had a strong urge to macerate the rodent's skeletal structure just so I would have something to examine, but I refrained. I suspected it would not give the correct impression to those in charge here.

--

_The old shack first appeared to house the remains of three soldiers. They were largely devoid of flesh, the work of local fauna. I estimated they had been there for a couple weeks. A large crate sat against a far wall, soil damp around its base. Eddy accompanied me while the rest of the soldiers, likely put off by the pervasive smell of death, set up a perimeter and unloaded my gear outside._

_I looked to her face as she surveyed the decomposing forms. "Are you alright?"_

_She trod carefully among the splintered furniture and broken bodies to help me pry the lid off of the crate. "Sure," she said hesitantly. "I've taken the courses. I've been in cadaver dissection seminars." A little more confident, "I'm not particularly squeamish."_

_The crate yielded with a sharp crack and a rush of odor._

_"This, however..." She took a step back._

_"If you want to wait outside..."_

_"No, no it's okay." She regained her composure and helped me lift and set aside the lid. A stony look crossed her face. "It's just... it's like a horror movie, but real."_

_I regarded her for a moment. I wasn't certain what was going on in her mind, but I was impressed by her fortitude. I imagined that any of the other soldiers waiting outside would have run howling from the building at the sight of the skeleton, wading in a pool of its own liquefied tissues. It lay quietly while I made my preliminary inspection. "The distal phalanges show fractures."_

_"What does that mean?"_

_"Her fingers were damaged."_

_"Her?"_

_"Yes," I indicated the pelvis, pointed out other gender markers._

_"Some kind of finger torture?"_

_"I'll have to examine the remains more carefully back at the camp, but I don't see any other apparent signs of torture in the rest of the skeleton, only the fingers. I'll be able to tell better after the bones have been cleaned, but it looks more like..." I mimicked a clawing movement in the air._

_Eddy took a sharp breath and I looked up at her._

_"She was shut in there while she was still alive. Still conscious," she breathed._

_I looked at her soberly, "It's a possibility, but we can't say authoritatively yet."_

_Eddy watched silently, fetched tools when I requested them. The atmosphere became somewhat less grim when we finished with the woman in the crate and moved on._

_She crouched down next to me as I pointed out various injuries another of the victims had sustained. Apparently my tone was quite energetic._

_"You're strange, Addy."_

_My brow furrowed. "How do you mean?"_

_"You seem to almost... enjoy this."_

_Something urged me to speak honestly, but more cautiously than normal. For whatever reason, I was concerned about what she thought of me. "Human remains make most people uncomfortable. Frequently it can be attributed to fear of death. But," I took a breath, "this is what I do. I do recognize that it's sad when people die tragically." I looked up from the bone I was examining and curiosity overtook me. "Is it strange to enjoy the puzzle that allows me to give them back their identities?"_

_She smiled softly. "That's one hell of a job description. I just hope that I'll be as passionate in my career."_

_Eddy spoke about her field often, and I'd buried my nose in academic journals whenever possible, scouring the internet for related articles so I could converse with her. It look a lot of reading to keep up. "You remind me of myself when I was in school," I commented._

_She cocked an eyebrow at me._

_"I mean you talk about genetics like I talked about anthropology." She smiled and placed a hand on my arm. It warmed at her touch. What would Booth say in this situation? "I'm sure you'll do fine. You've always given me the impression of a very passionate person." The deep pools of her eyes locked onto mine. Three breaths passed quietly.  
_

_A rustle drew our attention and Eddy quickly retracted her hand, moving surreptitiously to stand on the other side of the ditch. The loss of her skin on mine felt almost sharp. A soldier -- whose hair color (red, maybe?) was was hidden under his helmet -- poked his head inside the tent and spoke. "The Colonel wants an ETA."_

_Eddy didn't look at me and my chest felt unexplainably tight. "I should be able to complete the recovery within an hour." _

_The possibly red-headed soldier nodded and retreated from the tent._

_I swallowed the lump in my throat and looked back down at the remains without comment. Eddy's rich voice recommenced its questioning. My answers were short now and before long she commented on the change._

_I sighed quietly. "It appears that you enjoy the act of flirting, but you're ashamed of me." I forced my voice to remain steady. "It's okay, I understand. I am used to being excluded."_

_"Zack, no. No, it's not that," she said. "There are policies against fraternization. You're an officer, I'm enlisted."_

_"Oh," I shook the disappointment from my face. "That's right." I wasn't sure why I had forgotten that particular rule, the one that had made her so upset when her friend was reprimanded._

_"We could get in a lot of trouble if our superiors found out."_

_I nodded slowly. Then, suddenly, wonder suffused my brain. "If they found out what?"_

_Her eyes were filled with an intensity that I wasn't expecting. Kneeling beside me, she pressed her lips to mine. They were soft and full and tasted inexplicably of honeysuckle. She opened her mouth slightly and caressed my lips with hers.  
_

_When she finally pulled away, when my heart's pounding slowed, I could do nothing but look at her in shock. A "why?" finally managed to escape my throat. _

_She laughed. "See, now that's a response I've never had after kissing someone. You didn't like it?" she said with an eyebrow hiked to the ceiling._

_"That's not what I said. I mean, yes, I liked it very much." I was starting to stutter. "But there are many other more physically appropriate males here."_

_"I don't want an 'evolutionary ideal.' I want someone who makes me happy." She let the hand in my hair run down my neck. "That's you, Zack. You're cute. You're amusing and intelligent. You have a love for your work that outshines anything I've seen since arriving in this hellhole. And I feel like I can connect with you."_

_She was beautiful, brilliant, astonishing. After my long years of study in numerous subjects, _that_ was the day that I commenced my examination of the concept of love._


	6. We Were Young

I imagine that the person organizing and planning activities for the inmates here finds artistic projects therapeutic and must think they are doing an excellent job. Personally, I think that recommending finger painting for a person with no fingers is just cruel.

The rubber coating on the prostheses perform the function of fingerprints, providing friction and allowing me to grip the small paper cups of paint. Criminals have long been known to attempt to get rid of their identifying fingerprints by burning them off, but it is futile. The skin's ridges will grow back with the same patterns, so long as the dermis is intact. But my dermis is not intact. Several of my fingers will never have those distinguishing characteristics again.

I dip rubber-covered prosthetic fingers into the paint and make identical non-descript marks with each. An empty desert spreads across my paper.

--

_Eddy liked my hands. Often, when we were by ourselves off base, she would run her fingers along the loops and whorls._

_One late afternoon found us laying on our sides, the sweat of our exertion covering our bare skin, exchanging occasional kisses. I smiled at the visually striking nature of the contrasting pigmentation of our entwined bodies._

_She traced above my third distal phalanx, drawing smoothly down to the scaphoid. Bringing it close to her face, she sent a nail softly along the lines of my palm. She'd been speaking about genetics and fingerprints in that particular post-coital languor. "Take monozygotic twins. Their genes are largely identical, but environment also plays a role in DNA development. It's why identical twins still have distinct fingerprints. There are distinct modifications in utero, after they're born, as they grow."_

_Her rhythmic voice, as much as the pleasing chemicals still effecting my body, soothed me._

_"No matter how alike people may seem, there are always differences. It's so beautiful," she pressed her smaller hand against mine, lined up our fingers. "It's astounding to me, that of the billions of people who have ever lived, each one is unique. So each relationship is unique. This here," she linked her fingers between mine, "what we have, could never be recreated. It's completely ours."_

_I breathed deep as she continued. "This love is ours."_

_"You know," my voice cracked and I cleared my throat, "I didn't really believe in love before. I know it's a release of various chemicals... norepinephrine, endorphins, vasopressin, but I've come to think that knowing how it happens doesn't make it any less genuine."_

_She smiled and nodded against my neck. "Just because we know how the human body works doesn't make it any less beautiful in its complexity." Eddy tended toward the poetic just after we'd made love. I tended to follow her._

_I made a point to thank Angela for her sexual advice. She'd been right, of course, although the relationship hadn't lasted with Naomi, she had taught me many things that had come in very handy in recent weeks. And Hodgins' gift of the kama sutra book was nearly as enlightening._

_I let my free hand stray across her spine and to her side, caressing pressure points, and we stretched together in silence._

_She chuckled and murmured, "Eddy and Addy."_

_We'd done this call and response many times before. I answered, "Addy and Eddy." Then I decided to improvise. I took a breath and looked into her clear, brown eyes. "Addy and Addy?"_

_She smiled, "Maybe someday. When we get back home." She kissed me. "We're young yet."_

_It was true. We were young._

_And in a war zone._

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	7. Any Other Day

_thank you so much for the reviews. it's wonderful to hear your thoughts!_

_

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In keeping with the other spaces in this institution, the visitation room has few distinguishing characteristics. It is large. Larger than makes me comfortable when its only furnishings are a table and two chairs. Light streams brightly through barred windows and the bleak acoustics swallow words quickly. The lack of an echo makes me feel claustrophobic, but I push the feeling down.

I process what Dr. Sweets is saying to me across the table but respond to my own thoughts, rather than his.

"I'm putting them behind me."

He shifts smoothly to my train of thought and leans forward. "Zack, it's important for you to voice your problems to get past them. Sharing is an integral step in that process."

"I do share them."

"With whom?" he asks with creases on his brow.

Will's blank face and tight curls flash to the fore of my memory. "Another patient."

"And he gives you rational feedback?"

My eyebrows float upward. "Sometimes he replies, and occasionally it makes sense."

Sweets has a notepad on the table in front of him during each of our sessions, but he doesn't make notes while I'm here. Now he taps his finger against the side of the dime-a-dozen ball point pen laying on the yellow paper. "I'd be very interested to hear what you talk to him about."

I consider for a moment. "My time in Iraq. I can do it now. I couldn't put it behind me then, but I think now I can."

"Something happened during your time in the military?" he asks quietly.

The prosthetics that extend my damaged digits sit silent. Blood flows in the surrounding tissue but the plastic and rubber remains cool.

When Hodgins visited me the week before, he informed me about the split between himself and Angela. I wondered how much my betrayal played into the strain on their relationship. For reasons both within and outside of my control, the cultural ritual that first drew me into society, Hodgins' and Angela's wedding, would not take place.

Nor would mine. I would never introduce Lily to my friends (_my friends,_ I think with a sharp twinge in my stomach) as I had been so eager to do. I hadn't wanted to tell them about her in letters. I wanted them to meet her in person.

The neurons controlling long-term memory begin to fire and, for once, I am glad that I can't see my hands.

--

_It had been like any other day. The heat prompted me to leave the door to the hallway open. Air conditioning was always better there, as the operating room and post-operative ward across from me tended to get quicker repair than the lab space I shared with the mortician. The tinny pipes rattled and a whir echoed in the long hallway._

_A distant door opened, followed by the unmistakable sound of controlled, approaching chaos. I'd heard the pattern before and it always seemed to me a horrible disconnect. The sound of medical personnel calmly assessing a patient in critical condition. Squeaking wheels rolling fast, voices routine. A gurney drew near and clattered by, a medic applied fresh gauze to the gut wound as they passed. The old was dirty and had been soaked through._

_My chest turned cold when I saw her dark skin covered in blood. I darted along in their wake._

_I was used to death. In my work, I dealt with it on a daily basis. I wasn't used to seeing it actually happen. And I was certainly not used to seeing the innards of someone I loved falling helplessly out of open wounds._

_I'd had no trouble researching intimacy, but she'd taught me about love. She spoke with poetry and beauty, even about literature's tragic love. But this was not poetic. It was not beautiful._

_They would later discover that the land mine that hit her jeep was one of ours, mislabeled on a map. A clerical error. Typos usually were the kind of thing that made you wait in line two hours longer at the DMV. I would have spent the rest of my life in line at the DMV if it could have prevented this. _

_"Zack," she gurgled and coughed weakly. She reached out and caught my hand while medical personnel moved quickly and calmly around her. Shaking fingers ran along my palm, depositing her blood in my loops and whorls. "I didn't..." her eyes shone. And then didn't._

_I didn't what? I wondered later. I didn't get to see Paris? I didn't finish the letter to my mother? I didn't get to tell you I was pregnant?_

_The autopsy discovered her condition. It had only been a few weeks, she might not have even known._

_The pathologist looked over at me from the autopsy table across the room. I continued peeling back tissue from bones found the previous day, but tried not to look at my hands as I did so. I had long since wiped them clean, but I still saw her blood there. _

_"Did you know she was seeing someone?" He must have taken my lack of response as a no. "Must have been a local. She'd been spending all of her down time off base by herself."_

--

Sweets shifted in his seat. "What happened in Iraq, Zack? Why did the army psychiatrist send you home?"

"You should talk to him."

"I have, at length. He said that you were never very social, but that you seemed to give up trying at some point."

"I don't believe he cared enough to try to figure out what was wrong."

"You might be right." He leaned further forward and spoke softly, "But I do care, Zack. I want to help you with what happened."

"I don't need help. I'm already putting it behind me."

A long pause was smothered by the overlarge room.

My voice sounded odd coming from my throat. "I never understood why people say 'I loved them' in reference to deceased persons. Using the past tense seems odd. The person is gone, not the love."

Sweets' brow furrowed.

The love hangs stubbornly on.

* * *

_we still have several more chapters to go. soon we'll be returning to the jeffersonian and following zack through the third season._

_please review!_


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